Cassie McDaniel couldn't believe that she had just finished having dinner with Jarod Jefferson IV and that now he was hailing a taxi for the two of them, with the silent understanding that they would head back to her apartment together. Sure, Jarod was technically still married to Sylvia - his wife of 2 1/2 years - but he was so utterly gorgeous with his brown hair that flopped over his forehead just like Hugh Grant in _Four Weddings and a Funeral_, his broad shoulders, the smirk that always seemed to play around his full lips, that when he suggested two days ago, as she walked past his office on her way out for the night, that they should get together for a drink, she couldn't say no.

A drink had turned into dinner, and dinner, well, if Cassie had anything to say about it, dinner would turn into breakfast. Cassie ran her fingers through her long chestnut hair, and she gave Jarod a sidelong glance, fixing him with her snake-green eyes, as she took her seat beside him in the cab that he had just managed to procure. She was wearing a very, very low-cut, very, very short red dress - the dress that she thought of as her "secret weapon" dress - and by her estimation, it was working its magic. She shifted closer to Jarod on the bench-seat of the taxi, and he turned to her.

"It'll be one stop," Cassie sighed, as Jarod put his hand on her thigh, just above her knee, "48th and 8th."

"You know we shouldn't be doing this," Jarod said, but she looked at him, and there was that smirk again, and she put her finger to his lips.

With that Jarod licked her fingertip, and he pulled her closer to him. As the taxi vaulted through the city streets, nearing Cassie's apartment, the two began kissing - first slowly, just tickling each others lips and tongues, and then with more fire. Oh God, Cassie thought, I can't believe this is happening to me. I can't believe that I'm making out in the back of a taxi with Jarod Jefferson IV!

It was five minutes, with the meter still running, before Jarod and Cassie realized that the cab-driver had stopped in front of Cassie's 3rd floor walk-up and that he was watching them with great concentration in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. Finally, the two of them pulled apart, and Cassie tried to rearrange her clothes so that her black lace bra wasn't showing and her dress wasn't twisted up around her waist. As she did this, Jarod fumbled in his wallet. He threw the cab-driver a $50.

As the two exited the cab, they were quiet but they could feel the sparks between them lighting up the night sky. The last thing that Cassie thought, as she said to Jarod, "Come with me," was that she couldn't wait to get him inside.

Sorry, but I'm taking my pass this week.

I had just completed my draft for this week's submission (which, like many other contestants, I always write out longhand before entering it into the computer) and was typing my entry, when my keyboard began to experience a most peculiar malfunction. Every time I typed an "x", it inserted a "q"; so, for example, when I attempted to type "sexy", I got "seqy". Thinking this quirk was just something I would have to overcome, I went back over my draft and removed all words with "x" in them and replaced them with synonyms (hardly satisfactory, of course, since it meant I had to remove not only every reference to "sex", but also "convex", "nexus", "xanadu" and "buxom", all of which played pivotal roles in my submision).

I was able to replace each of these with an x-free alternative; however, when I saved this newly-typed draft (of course, I always type my entries into Notepad before pasting them on the website), the computer applied some sort of non-standard formatting. I noticed that the text I had already entered had been altered in a subtle but consistent manner. Every "u" had acquired an umlaut, so that "lust" had become "lüst", "nuts" now read "nüts", etc. What could I do with this? Revising the whole passage to avoid using the vowel altogether was out of the question, so I was forced to paste this modified text into the comment field, despite the familiar, unmistakable feeling that I was the victim of some sort of devious machination.

This much I could have borne; I knew that my work was passionate enough and powerful enough to transcend these typographical slights. However, when I clicked the button to Preview my entry, it was evident that yet another substitution had been made. Every time I had used the word "skin," that word had been expunged and replaced with the word "tamale." No doubt this was someone's idea of a joke; whether it was someone affiliated with this competition, or someone more powerful and sinister, watching these events unfold from a glass tower somewhere in the pacific northwest, I cannot say. However, I'm sure you'll agree that it was quite impossible for me to submit my passage in that form.

Fortunately, though I was able to scan in my handwritten draft, and will now attach that to this post in JPG form, as proof that I did not shirk my opportunity to defend my victory in the last challenge:

------Begin attach---------
Format: JPG
(*&^%(#^)(*&_($*#&()*#&$)(*#&$) !(#@*^$!)(#^$)(!*#&$()*!#&$_(P*#&$ (#*%R$ #(&YR *(#&RY (P!#*YR (P#!&YR (#P!YR (P!#&RY P(#*RY )!#*RY P(#*RY P(#&T RP!(#&R TP(!#*RY P(!#YR P(#*RY P#(!*RY (*&^%(#^)(*&_($*#&()*#&$)(*#&$) !(#@*^$!)(#^$)(!*#&$()*!#&$_(P*#&$ (#*%R$ #(&YR *(#&RY (P!#*YR (P#!&YR (#P!YR (P!#&RY P(#*RY )!#*RY P(#*RY P(#&T RP!(#&R TP(!#*RY P(!#YR P(#*RY P#(!*RY (*&^%(#^)(*&_($*#&()*#&$)(*#&$) !(#@*^$!)(#^$)(!*#&$()*!#&$_(P*#&$ (#*%R$ #(&YR *(#&RY (P!#*YR (P#!&YR (#P!YR (P!#&RY P(#*RY )!#*RY P(#*RY P(#&T RP!(#&R TP(!#*RY P(!#YR P(#*RY P#(!*RY (*&^%(#^)(*&_($*#&()*#&$)(*#&$) !(#@*^$!)(#^$)(!*#&$()*!#&$_(P*#&$ (#*%R$ #(&YR *(#&RY (P!#*YR (P#!&YR (#P!YR (P!#&RY P(#*RY )!#*RY P(#*RY P(#&T RP!(#&R TP(!#*RY P(!#YR P(#*RY P#(!*RY (*&^%(#^)(*&_($*#&()*#&$)(*#&$) !(#@*^$!)(#^$)(!*#&$()*!#&$_(P*#&$ (#*%R$ #(&YR *(#&RY (P!#*YR (P#!&YR (#P!YR (P!#&RY P(#*RY )!#*RY P(#*RY P(#&T RP!(#&R TP(!#*RY P(!#YR P(#*RY #(!*RY*&^%(#^)(*&_($*#&()*#&$)(*#&$) !(#@*^$!)(#^$)(!*#&$()*!#&$_(P*#&$ (#*%R$ #(&YR *(#&RY (P!#*YR (P#!&YR (#P!YR (P!#&RY P(#*RY )!#*RY P(#*RY P(#&T RP!(#&R TP(!#*RY P(!#YR P(#*RY P#(!*RY

You think it's awesome that you're getting some for your sixteenth birthday.

You were embarassed when you went to the counter and asked for the Lifestyles extra-sensitive condoms, but proud to know which kind, 'cause you didn't want your first time to be ruined by a stupid rubber.

You pulled up at her house in your "new-to-you" but seven year old Civic and had to stop yourself from running to the front door, and having your pants off before you were done ringing the doorbell.

Instead, when you got to the door, you realized your palms were sweaty, and hoped that she wouldn't notice.

When she answered the door she was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans.

You realized that she was wearing a bra and probably was wearing panties, and you wondered why she bothered.

Without saying anything, she took you by the hand to her bedroom, and you kind of liked the wild strawberries theme. It was cute.

She kissed you, and you thought you wouldn't last ten seconds, the tension was killing you so bad.

But you were patient, a little at least, and you kissed her down her neck, and nibbled on her ears a bit, and then went back to her mouth, and your hand reached up inside her cotton t-shirt, and you felt her breasts under her bra, and you reached your hand around the back and took, like, ten forevers to get the thing unclasped, and helped her get her bra and shirt off in one very tangly motion.

You looked at her breasts.

You kissed them, and kissed down her belly, which wasn't flat, but you didn't mind 'cause you didn't care if she was a supermodel anyway, and as you got to her belly button she said that tickles and you stopped and unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down.

You thought no shit those are Hanes Her Way 'cause if they were Hanes my way they'd still be in her dresser drawer.

She asks you to go down on her, and you think that's cool, and you take her panties off and you do go down on her as she sits down on the edge of the bed, although you suspect you may be doing it badly, but she's making nice little noises and she grabs at your shirt which you realize like a dolt is still on and you stop to take it off.

She looks at your jeans with a hungry look in her eye and you take of your shorts and your underpants and you pull out the rubber and you realize...

You don't have any genitals at all.

You remember that you are merely a textual cosntruction (and a cliched one at that).

You remember that as the narratee in a second person narrative, that you have virtually nothing at all in common with the flesh-and-blood real reader, who probably has another window open to an internet porn site, or the one who is mildly repulsed that N., your implied author, would pull this crap (that reader wouldn't say "shit").

You realize that as the ideal reader you couldn't actually be reading this and doing what is narrated at the same time, since it is being narrated in the present tense, and then you curse N. (whoever N. is) out, because you realize that in all of this narratological jibber-jabber, your naked and turned-on girlfriend has disappeared from the text and you're left in conceptual space, and you might have a woody and even blue balls if you actually had any body at all.

Joke's on you, I guess.